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Where did my winter go?

It was just a few years ago, not long after we moved to the Plains, we had snow on the ground before Thanksgiving that wasn’t gone until nearly Easter of the following year. Winter needs snow; it’s one of the reasons to live where winter is a real season. Lately, though, the snow on the ground comes later and leaves sooner. Debate whatever side of the climate research you want – I just want the snow back.

Really, didn’t seasons used to gracefully migrate into one another? Spring showers and flowers would ease into summer greenery and warmth which would evolve into autumn colors and crispness. Then once the last leaf fell to the ground snow was right behind it to shape the ground until the spring bulbs pushed their way through to the sun. You didn’t need a calendar to know what time of the year it was – you just needed to walk around outside a bit and it became obvious.

Now it feels like seasons make a quick appearance, tell a few jokes and then rapidly exit stage left, leaving us with this “in-between” thing that has no name, a time we sit around trying to decide “what season is it?” and our biological clocks get out of rhythm with nature. It’s like a scene from a bad Chekhov story where the characters sit around wondering why they are there and what they are to do, only to realize the answer to both questions is there is no answer.

Feels like we at least need a name for this inter-seasonal doldrum. They say naming something makes it real in our minds so that would be a start.